


Gray

by InkFlavored



Series: Zenyatta Appreciation Week 2018 [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Making up shit about Omnics, Making up shit about the Shambali, making up shit about the omnic crisis, they won't give zenyatta lore so i'm making my own goddamnit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2019-04-04 17:21:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14025018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkFlavored/pseuds/InkFlavored
Summary: Zenyatta Appreciation Week (Day 1: Starting point/History)Zenyatta did not always have the idea to go out into the world, seeking souls to comfort. Everyone has a beginning, even in the darkest of times.





	Gray

**Author's Note:**

> happy zenyatta appreciation week! i've been waiting for this for a long time, because i love my boy. he's perfect. this is a rewrite from zen's chapter in "Colors" -- another work i've started but kind of slowed down on lately. i thought this was the perfect excuse to make it a whole bunch better!

Though the universe exists in a multitude of magnificent colors, Zenyatta had always appreciated gray. Of course, it wasn’t the most aesthetically pleasing – it was even called dull – but the Shambali monk had always found it fascinating. It wasn’t just representative of desaturation and boredom, but choice, and compromise. Where black and white existed, there was always a gray – a middle ground. Different, countless shades of gray, the moral compass in tangible form. Not a single shade was ever on accident, or the same. All of them were different. So, so very different.

Differences were, after all, what made existing so interesting the first place. Zenyatta always marveled at the countless number of possibilities available to him at all times, for any and every situation, from one extreme to the other, and every shade of gray in between. All good, all bad, all neither, all both. Though, of course, all of them were subjective.

However, the shade of dark gray that colored the Omnic Crisis was the worst shade, in Zenyatta’s personal, subjective opinion. Regretfully, darkness, death, and violence all served a purpose in the world, no matter how vile. On the scale of black and white, that went to every extreme, the shades of gray between them would allow for violence, in almost every case. In the case of the Omnic Crisis, it was the deepest shade of gray possible without becoming completely black. It was the darkest gray, plunging down into the depths, not quite reaching the extreme, but only just.

Purely subjectively, of course.

The Omnic Crisis, in Zenyatta’s opinion, was horrifyingly dark gray from anyone’s perspective. From the omnics made before the Crisis, forced first to serve humans, and forced again to fight a war they had no say in, sent only to die for the wills of the God AIs, screaming against the programming that infected them, and then screaming as they died. From the omnics churned out from the omniums during the Crisis, the ones that knew no other world than living, fighting, and dying. From the citizens, watching their servants turn against them in their own homes without warning, dying by the masses, for no better reason than their harmless technology turned against them. From the soldiers that faced near-impenetrable machines, things that felt no fear, no pain, and no mercy, getting sent on missions that they knew they wouldn’t be retuning from. From the injured, dead, and dying that littered the battlefields for days, weeks, and months, and ones that still remained.

Subjectively, the Omnic Crisis was the worst shade of gray that could ever exist.

Zenyatta, at the time of the Crisis, was a young omnic, one of the hundreds of thousands built only to serve the Gods AIs. He was cannon fodder and he knew it, knowing no other life out of being expendable. Every day, he marched out of the omnium, to fight the humans as he was told, and accepting completely that it was statistically likely (78.97% according to his processor) that he would not survive. His whole life had been fighting. He had never known anything else. There was no gray in his life – only black and white. He was either fighting or he wasn’t.

When the Crisis finally ended, and he was released from the God AIs’ control he didn’t know what to do with himself. He had no more instructions, no more compulsion to fight, and no reason for it either. It was unsettling, having no reason to exist. His entire purpose had been to fight, and now he no longer had to fight. So what else could he do? He had no purpose, and nowhere to go. There was no rehabilitation for omnic survivors of the Omnic Crisis. A war that, from the perspective of humans, the omnics had caused in the first place.

His world filled with gray very quickly, after his epiphany. His black and white became muddled and mixed together. He was either fighting or he wasn’t, true. But he was also travelling, trying to find other omnics from his unit, or _any_ unit. He was stumbling upon many humans and their cities, running away or fighting back when they threatened violence. He was either fighting, searching, or trying to survive. His life was filled with dark shades of gray, and not much else.

One day, he came across a cluster of humans, hidden deep in the Himalayas, that didn’t immediately treat him with vitriol. In fact, they welcomed him, and there the poor, lost omnic finally found others. The human village had been harboring omnics like him – ones that had failed to find a purpose after they were released by the God AIs. After all, they were created to receive orders, and nothing else. It was in their nature to be black and white. Without instructions, orders, or control, they were lost in an overwhelming, endless world of gray.

But there was an omnic in the village who embraced the gray. He spoke loudly and with confidence, and chose a name for himself like a human, instead of introducing himself with a serial number. His name was Mondatta, and he preached a shade of gray that none of the omnics -- or humans for that matter -- had ever considered.

Mondatta claimed that everyone, omnics and humans alike, had souls. He spoke of the Iris, the embodiment of all the universe, the place where their fallen brethren’s souls ascended to, and the humans’ souls as well. He spoke of enlightenment to communicate with the Iris and draw from its power. He spoke of reaching out to the humans and teaching them that omnics were not evil, and were just a much the victims of the Crisis as they were.

Mondatta’s most dedicated follower, and soon, closest friend, enthusiastically committed himself to the cause, and took the name Zenyatta and encouraged the other omnics to do the same. Many of them did, and moved higher up the mountain to the abandoned temple, cleaning it out, and repairing it enough to be livable, by both omnic and human standards. Some of the omnics didn’t share their philosophy, and moved on to other places, searching for the gray that suited them. The omnics that called themselves the Shambali monks let them go, sending them off with well-wishes and blessings. And then they got to work.

Zenyatta loved living among the other monks, omnics who believed in peace between omnics and humans in a world that thought it impossible. The humans in the village gave him a similar comfort – a reminder that their cause was not hopeless. The shade of gray he found himself living in was coming out of the darkness and reaching for the light. He was full of optimism, and almost thought the mission of the Shambali would be _easy_. People who had been damaged by war were sure to reject them initially, of course, but after taking time to learn, how could they _not_ accept those who wanted nothing more than to co-exist peacefully, and live side-by-side.

Zenyatta learned rather quickly of other, less comforting, shades of gray.

Occasionally, when Mondatta deemed it appropriate - as the Shambali had turned to him as the de facto leader -  lead the monks to human cities, where they would speak for crowds of humans and spread their message (always with an easy escape, just in case). More often than not, their speeches would end with jeering, booing, and slurs – and other times they wouldn’t even be able to finish. Things would be thrown at them, everything from rocks, to fruit, to furniture, until they left - by force or by choice. If they didn’t leave as quickly as the humans wanted to, weapons were brandished, threats were made, and law enforcement called. In the best situations, they were chased out, dented, but not beyond repair. In gray situations, they were arrested, or more severely damaged. In the worst situations, there were casualties. Usually on the side of the Shambali.

Zenyatta never expected to have to fight for his life again – never _wanted_ to fight for his life again. He’d had enough of war, and death, and bloodshed. It brought back to many memories, too many dark grays that muddled his light grays, or blocked them out entirely. Sometimes, he forgot he was in a warzone. He felt defenseless, naked, exposed. Helpless.

Meditation helped. Prayer helped. Mondatta helped. The other monks helped. But it wasn’t enough. He hated feeling like he couldn’t protect himself, or his friends. He hated feeling defenseless in the face of such blatant threats against his life, and the other monks’. Zenyatta was wholeheartedly against any kind of fighting or violence. He did not want more deaths to come of their cause, but he became increasingly convinced that more and more Shambali would die if they remained defenseless.

The more Zenyatta considered it, the more it made sense. Fighting, not out of malice, but out of survival, was the only way the Shambali could survive long enough to spread their message. To be prepared, in case of emergency only, to protect themselves against the inevitable riot. He saw the gray between the black and white. A middle ground – not a perfect solution. But, as he’d learned, there _were_ no perfect solutions.

Mondatta was less inclined to see Zenyatta’s point of view. He didn’t want to use fighting of any kind when it came to spreading the Shambali’s message, because, he often repeated, “Fighting with people will not convince them of our cause, Brother.”

But Zenyatta, regardless, argued with his leader. “If those who we are trying to teach are threatening our lives, then I am sure they do not wish to hear _more_ of our beliefs. They might even rejoice at the sight of us being unarmed and unable to defend ourselves.”

Mondatta did not appreciate Zenyatta’s attempt at dark humor, nor did he appreciate his brother’s idea for the fifth time in the same week.

In the end, Zenyatta took the gray upon himself, alone. He built his orbs from spare parts of omnics, nanomachines, and biotic fields. He launched energy through his weapons, aided his with allies healing warmth, and damaged his enemies with unholy energy. He taught himself martial arts, and included it in his morning routine. Sparring alone was not as useful as with a partner, but it was better than nothing, especially because the other monks followed in Mondatta’s footsteps. It was irritating to be ignored, but he let them be.

Everyone had their own shade of gray in the temple, and Zenyatta respected that. Some monks hated him for what he did, some simply ignored him. There were even some that _agreed_ with Zenyatta, but didn’t dare to defy Mondatta so blatantly. The leader himself was none too thrilled with Zenyatta’s practices, but he had learned long ago that trying to control his brother was akin to trying to control the weather -- nigh impossible.

It was only after one of their speeches was finished early by humans that were turning violent that Zenyatta’s idea was truly recognized, as he saved them all without losing a single life – human or omnic.

“Perhaps,” Mondatta conceded, after they had gotten to safety, “there is some merit to self-defense.”

Zenyatta failed when he tried not to be smug.

Understandably, not all of the monks were as eager to embrace self-defense training as readily as they had accepted the Iris. They were very fixed in their personal shades of gray.

So, Zenyatta started small. He trained a small group of monks who were willing to learn self-defense from him. Over time, his groups grew larger, but not in any significant capacity. There were some who simply did not believe that fighting was necessary. Others were veterans of the Omnic Crisis, and didn’t want to see any more violence if they could help it. There were no (explosive) argument, but Mondatta always made sure to bring at least two omnics that knew how to fight when the monks travelled for speeches.

As time went on, the Shambali Temple was surprised to see people – both human and omnic – approaching _them_ instead. In the case of an omnic visitor, searching for a safe place to stay, or to convert, and become members of the Shambali themselves. In the case of humans, it was usually to understand the movement, a task that every monk in the temple enthusiastically agreed to assist with, or to visit an omnic friend that had become a monk. Sometimes there was the odd human that passed through only to vandalize or spew hate speech, but those were few and far between. In all, the visitors they received were of a wide spectrum of gray. Some lighter, some darker, but all the monks were happy to welcome, assist, and teach.

However, there were even shades of gray to _that_.

Zenyatta did not like the methods of the Shambali. Though he would often to rephrase it a little more gently, he simply did not agree with the way that Mondatta ran things. He could appreciate the way the monks dedicated themselves to the message of the Iris, and peace between humans and omnics. They used traditional methods of peaceful resistance, very deliberately similar to popular human civil rights leaders. Their ultimate goal to bring positive connotations to the Shambali, and therefore, their movement, thus having it more widely recognized, and more universally accepted as fact. Their peace talks were broadcasted widely across the world, and hundreds came to hear Mondatta speak in person – especially in the later years. That was the light gray.

The dark gray was that they weren’t getting anything _done_ , in Zenyatta’s eyes at the very least. Those that rallied to speeches, marches, and watched their broadcasts were fantastic assets to the Shambali, and to omnic rights in general, but they were those who were already committed to omnic rights, before they’d even heard of the Shambali monks. They were not being convinced, their minds were not being changed. Those that disagreed with the Shambali – the very people the Shambali were _aiming_ to teach – would not willingly show up to rallies or speeches for movements they opposed. And so, their movement remained stagnant – a fairly deep pool with very little spread.

The Shambali were talking to _groups_ and not people. _People_ did not respond to dogmatic teachings and lectures. _People_ did not respond to being told their values and beliefs are wrong, and others’ values are the _true_ path of righteousness. It gave the impression of lording over others, a holier-than-thou sensibility, and _people_ simply did not respond to such forceful methods, no matter the intention.

Zenyatta tried for weeks to think of a better solution, a more effective way of reaching people, but to no avail. He would often avoid hibernation for it, and run his processors until they overheated, and nearly burned out. He’d started to worry Mondatta, who could tell his brother was dodging rest in favor of “thinking too much.” He was content to listen to Zenyatta’s excuses about “thinking too much” until his processors _actually_ burned out, whereupon Mondatta explosively insisted that Zenyatta get his core computer checked for malfunctioning fans or permanent damage from overworking.

Zenyatta maintained his stance. “I am fine, Brother,” he said, trying to pacify his brother. “I’ve simply had a lot on my mind as of late _._ ”

The leader of the Shambali wasn’t having it. He fretted and fussed like a mother hen until Zenyatta relented, if only to give his brother some peace of mind.

He was flown to one of their contacts in King’s Row, a human technician who had proved sympathetic to omnics, and had often provided spare parts and check-ups for omnics, including members of the Shambali. Despite the fact that London was a city known for cruelty for omnics, Mondatta was confident Zenyatta could handle himself if things got messy, and their contact wasn’t unable to defend herself either.

It was on the way back from the check-up – from which the conclusion showed everything was in working order, as Zenyatta had predicted – that he heard a frustrated curse further down the street, and the tell-tale thumping of heavy objects hitting the pavement.

He turned a corner to find a middle-aged human man hunched over a torn back of groceries. Foodstuffs littered the street, nothing torn or broken, but scattered across the concrete. A can of beans rolled its way down sidewalk, stopping at the omnic’s foot.

Zenyatta picked up the can and looked down the street. People rushed past the poor man, omnics especially giving the man a wide berth, some even glancing back at the monk and shaking their head at him. The man looked as if he was parting a sea of people, even as he bent down with his two unbroken bags of groceries, picking up can after can, bag after bag.

Despite the warnings, Zenyatta marched determinedly towards the man. He completely accepted any consequences of his actions. And was capable of defending himself from them.

“Are you in need of assistance?” he asked, holding out the can.

The man swore loudly, and scrambled to his feet. He didn’t take the can.

“Get the _hell_ away from me,” he hissed, pointing at the monk accusatorially. His eyes were wide with rage and fear. “I don’t need any help you can give me.”

“Are you certain? You’ve dropped a lot of –”

“I _said_ to get the _fuck_ away! You miserable bots have already taken enough from me.”

The human waved his arms as if to shoo Zenyatta off, but the monk didn’t budge. Instead, he set the can down on the ground, and folded his hands in front of him. “I am sorry for whomever you lost,” he said, genuinely sorry. “The omnics that I know regret much from the Crisis. Would you accept my help as a gesture of goodwill?”

The man went very still. His eyes flicked from Zenyatta to the can, to his own shaking hands. His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. The monk considered walking away, but something in him convinced him to stay. Something told him this was the right thing to do.

“I…” the man finally said. “Sure. Just don’t try anything.”

Zenyatta nodded, and without another word, bent down to start collecting the fallen groceries, stacking them to the side in a neat pile. The man, on the other hand, watched the omnic for several long, tense seconds before deciding to bend down and start forming his own pile. He constantly glanced up from the ground and the food to stare at Zenyatta intensely, like he was waiting for an attack at any moment.

The Omnic Crisis truly left behind the darkest gray of them all. Zenyatta felt that, if he possessed a heart, it would have been breaking.

Minutes of silence passed as the two picked up the groceries. They had silently divided the sidewalk between themselves, and created their piles on either side of the invisible line. Zenyatta didn’t cross the boundary, and the man never crossed it either. When Zenyatta had picked up everything on his side of the line, and the man had almost finished as well, he decided to speak.

“I lost friends in the Omnic Crisis as well,” he said, and it was true. Though the God AIs made them little more than puppets, every unit was connected to one network, and could all interact with each other. Every omnic from his unit that was lost felt like losing a part of himself. “It took many lives on both sides. I regret my part in it.”

“You what?” the man asked.

“I regret my –”

“No, no, the other thing. You lost friends?”

“Perhaps not in the way humans think of them, but yes. We all did.”

“I didn’t know omnics could have – well, I mean, I know you can all make friends,” the human sputtered, “but I just didn’t know. With the God AIs and all that bullshit, it’s...” He waved his hands around his head, as if that would prove his point.

Zenyatta almost laughed, but thought it might be a bit tasteless. “It’s surprising to hear?”

“Something like that.”

The human pulled an unbroken bag from behind him and started putting away his pile next to the other two unbroken bags. Zenyatta sat where he was, not wanting to cross their invisible boundary, patiently waiting for the bag to be passed his way.

To his surprise, the human waved him over silently, not looking up from his work. The omnic, silently gleeful, picked up a little bit of his stack at a time, and set it down next to the man, so he could put it away as he pleased. In any other situation, he would have used his orbs to push the rest of the stack behind him, so he wouldn’t have to make two trips, but decided against it, for the man’s sake. Regardless, it was minimal labor, and he was more than willing to sacrifice his convenience for another’s trust.

They were both silent until the bag was full. This time, the human spoke first.

“I lost my sister,” he said, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “She was in my regiment. I couldn’t get over to her fast enough when the shield went down, and she…” He motioned with his hand like he was brushing something out of the air.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Zenyatta offered, knowing it would do little. _Iris, rest her soul_ , he added to himself.

“Yeah, me too. She didn’t deserve it.”

“Nobody deserves such a fate.”

The man said nothing. The omnic said nothing. Perhaps there was nothing to say.

After a moment, the man stood up, carrying one bag in each arm, and letting Zenyatta carry the third, the one they had filled together. The man led him down the street a for a short time to an apartment building. He set down his bags, fished a keyring from his pocket, and unlocked the door. Zenyatta set down the bag he carried on the steps next to the other two, and had only just turned around when he heard –

“Wait.”

The omnic turned back around to see the man extending a hand toward him.

“Thank you,” the man said.

Zenyatta shook the man’s hand gladly. “The pleasure is mine.”

The man nodded, as if he’d expected that answer all along, then opened the door to his apartment, and carried the groceries inside.

Zenyatta went on his way, back to the airport, back to the Shambali, pouring over another shade of gray. The gray between human and omnic, war and peace, friend and enemy. The gray between two people who had more in common than expected. Compromise, common ground, individuals instead of ideals.

And then he had an idea.


End file.
